Unto The Breach
by stealthherself
Summary: Vietnam-Era Fic on the origins of the A-Team, as I imagine it. Friendship, war, pain, romance and plans coming together. T for Swearing/drinking, typical war issues, etc. Beware: Contains OC! I don't own the A-Team, etc. Ch 7 up.
1. Welcome to Da Nang, Flyboy

**Okay.. this is my first stab at A-Team fanfic. I'm looking towards a longer story arc, possibly with a couple of related fics. I'm not an expert on any of this stuff, but I try my best to be somewhat accurate. A few things to note:**

**This starts during the Vietnam Era, which means this isn't Movieverse, obviously.**

**There will be an OC in it, and I might open it up to accepting a few more user-created OCs as the timeline moves into the 80's soldier of fortune period. I solemnly swear to avoid Sueness whenever possible and will not be too heavy-handed with application of said OC(s).  
**

**I'm not going to be a canon-nazi, because I'm not writing an episode of the show. It's just a bit of fun, but I'll try not to write desperately out-of-character things. I might write Murdock a bit saner than he ought to be sometimes, or Face a bit less suave but I wouldn't go far as to have BA be a drag queen or anything truly ridiculous. **

**This is a slash-free fic. Not that I mind slash or don't read it, but I just don't write it. Sorry slashfans. -_-**

**That being said, there will be swearing and possible future references to substance use/abuse, sexual references, torture and other basic war gore. So I'm going to rate it M because I have no idea where it'll go.  
**

**With those warnings in place, read at your peril.  
**

XXX

Da Nang, May 1969

In the end, it wasn't the hollow moans or the bright, sharp stink of blood that pulled him to the surface of consciousness.

It was the faintest note of perfume. L'Heure Bleue. Only a tease of vanilla lingered, suggesting it had been sparingly applied to a wrist so many hours ago. The scent hooked his fogged mind, and the deceptively cool touch of slim fingers skimming his sweaty brow reeled him in.

He must have muttered something because a quiet voice responded.

"You're at the 95th Evac, Lieutenant Murdock." The fingers tugged gently at a bandage just above his right temple. "Try not to move sir, you've had a knock to your head."

Another voice, strained and definitely male, chimed in.

"That man is crazier than a shithouse rat!"

"Settle down Lieutenant Peck, you'll pull your sutures!" The nurse at Peck's bedside sighed and shook down a thermometer with several quick snaps and then popped it into her patient's protesting mouth. "Don't you say another word or I won't get an accurate reading," she insisted, tucking a sweat-damp curl behind her ear. She glanced over at the wounded pilot and the diminutive nurse changing his dressing.

"What's his status, Dixon?" she asked, ignoring Lieutenant Peck's muttering around the thermometer.

"Wound is clean, dry and intact ma'am. Temperature 98.4. Blood pressure 160/90 – likely a pain response," Second Lieutenant Kathleen Dixon said, producing a syringe from her pocket. "I'd like to give him about 10 mg of morphine if we can spare it."

Captain Theresa Lane nodded and removed the thermometer from Peck's mouth, which spurred a fresh round of complaints.

"Never seen flying like that in my life!" Peck said. "Supposed to land about three klicks from Dong Ap Bia and reunite me with my team. We come under a little fire and he goes nuts!"

"You're normal," Captain Lane said, shaking the thermometer briskly once again.

Second Lieutenant Templeton Peck paused briefly during his tirade and gave the tall nurse an appreciative look.

"You're not so bad yourself." A white smile popped against his tan.

Captain Lane closed her eyes briefly then turned her attention to another patient.

Murdock couldn't stop the nauseating, swirling sensation in his head as he tried to follow the conversation. He cracked open an eye and watched as a young Army nurse gently flicked a syringe. Her light brown hair hung in two sweaty tails that settled tiredly on her narrow shoulders.

"My bird," he croaked.

"Out of commission sir. You're both lucky to be alive, let alone relatively unharmed. Apparently, you're quite a pilot." Dixon disentangled his IV line as she talked.

"Might be the best," he said, his voice unsteady.

This declaration drew a derisive snort from Peck and a torrent of expletives.

Dixon started the slow push of morphine. A thin trickle of sweat coursed down the flat plane of the pilot's chest and pooled near the artful twist of his navel. "All right Lieutenant," she said, as much to soothe Murdock as to quiet Peck.

Peck wouldn't be quieted. "I have to get back out there!" he said, his voice rising sharply. "They'll die!"

A warm sensation crept down Murdock's spine and he flicked his eyes up to the little nurse standing over him. He registered tiny constellations of pale freckles scattered across her nose, her blue eyes gauging his response to the drug.

"Welcome to Da Nang, flyboy," she said as sleep crept up and claimed him

XXX

**Hey, I never said it would be great - but I can't get better unless you push that review button. Working on the next chapter. **


	2. Here's Lookin at You

**Wow, I was tired when I wrote this. **

**Thanks to those who stopped to review, and to those who read anonymously. This chapter is a bit longer. Some swearing.  
**

XXX

Da Nang, June 1969

His long, gently tapering fingers trailed slowly over her luscious curves. His mouth was dry, his breath ragged, as he transmitted his utter adoration through the languid sweep of his hand. This moment eclipsed all others. He'd only felt a twinge of pride when he made Captain last week, an acknowledgment for his valorous and acrobatic flight near Dong Ap Bia.

Murdock didn't consider it worth noting, as he hadn't managed to avoid the SAM that took out the tail rotor. He'd managed to land the chopper in dense brush with a touch so deft and delicate, that it seemed too intentional to be a crash - but a crash it was. Nor was he aware at the time that his passenger was part of a Special Forces Alpha Team. Ensuring that man's survival punched Murdock's ticket to captaincy. Lieutenant Peck, the passenger in question, escaped the ordeal with a few bruises and a laceration to his bicep. Murdock suffered a modest head wound when his temple connected with the roof of the chopper on impact. Any scarring would be minimal, according to the doctors at the 95th Evac. Truthfully, he now suffered daily headaches that bloomed white-hot behind his eyes. Any mention of that would keep him out of the air, and he offered no complaint.

None of that mattered now.

"Oh baby," he whispered reverently. He leaned in slowly and felt an electric pulse as his lips connected with her cool, dark skin.

"Captain Murdock?"

"Mmmm…" Murdock muttered softly, completely lost.

Colonel Barrett cleared his throat, uncertain what to make of the scene that greeted him.

"Captain!" the colonel said with force. The tall pilot leapt back from the gleaming, black Huey. He held out a sealed parcel. "For delivery to Nha Trang."

Murdock managed an awkward salute, his thin cheeks blazing.

"Yes sir."

"Your passengers should arrive shortly. Two for Nha Trang, three for Buon Ma Thuot." He passed him a sealed envelope marked 'Top Secret'. "Open that after your run to Buon Ma Thuot," the colonel glanced from the brand-new Huey to the embarrassed pilot. "As you were Captain," he said, turned on his heel and left.

Murdock watched as the colonel left the airfield, and slapped his face smartly with his open palm. New captain's bars, check. New Huey, check. Awkward moment with said Huey witnessed by CO, check.

"Pretty bird," a familiar quiet voice crept into his ear.

The lanky pilot turned, nearly stumbling into a tall, shapely redhead. He glanced at the name on her shirt – 'Cross'. For her part, Private Cross looked just as puzzled.

Lieutenant Dixon stepped out from behind the taller woman and smiled. "You're looking much better," she added. She tipped her head up to get a better look at the pink scar near his temple.

Murdock's face split in an enormous grin, partially out of relief that he wasn't hearing Lieutenant Dixon's voice in another person's body. She looked less grave, less sweaty than she had been in those hours spent tending his wound in hospital. He adjusted his cap, tucking a few wisps of ash brown hair behind his ears as he did so.

"Why Lieutenant Dixon," he said with a strangely formal bow. "Are you here solely to gaze in rapturous wonder at my new baby?" he patted the Huey.

Dixon handed Murdock a folded sheet of paper. "Private Cross and I are headed for Nha Trang. We're doing combat triage drills with some South Vietnamese nurses. Three weeks. Should be fun."

Murdock scanned the paperwork, tipping the briefest nod of acknowledgment to Private Cross.

"In that case senoritas," he drawled "your chariot awaits."

Dixon followed Cross into the cabin and stowed her bag. She moved to sit but was stayed by Murdock's hand.

"You might find," he added with a click of his tongue and a jerk of his thumb "that you'll enjoy the view up front." He gave her a little nudge into the co-pilot's seat and turned from the cabin to await the three passengers bound for Buon Ma Thuot. It was a short wait.

xxx

Lieutenant Colonel John Smith popped a match alight and took a long pull of his cigar. He could hear the heavy step of Sergeant Baracus behind him and could smell Lieutenant Peck's Juicy Fruit gum. He took stock of the chopper pilot as he made his final preparations. The boy was tall, somewhere around 6'4", and had a lean, manic look. He had a strong profile dominated by a finely sculpted, slightly hooked nose. Smith, of course, had full intel on Captain Murdock, coupled with Lieutenant Peck's harrowing tale of the Dong Ap Bia incident. Indeed, the young captain's record was peppered with reports of his daring, his fearlessness in the air. He was just the sort of kid Smith could find a use for. He cleared his throat.

"Cap'n Murdock?" he said, and grinned as the boy turned, his brown eyes wide. "Three for Buon Ma Thuot, please."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Lieutenant Peck said, coming to stand beside Colonel Smith. "That's the guy!"

Sergeant Baracus appeared Smith's other side and folded his arms. "What guy Face?" he said, feeling bellicose.

"That crazy fucking fool who crash-"

"What? Crashed? No way Hannibal! I'm not getting in no chopper with that fool!" the sergeant informed Smith, with as much respect as he could muster.

"Face, BA – easy." Hannibal held up a hand to quell his disgruntled teammates.

Murdock sniffed indignantly. "It was only a tiny crash." He held up his thumb and forefinger with a flourish, the two digits nearly touching.

"Tiny?" Face said. "We could have died! Fuckin-"

"Face. Don't be sayin' 'fuck' in front of no ladies." BA said, nodding towards the young nurses who were now peering out of the Huey, wide-eyed.

In the space of a breath, Face's entire person transformed. His lips parted and he offered the girls a smile, his blue eyes crackling. He walked towards the open cabin of the chopper with the easy gait of a predator. He nodded politely at Lieutenant Dixon, recognizing her from his short stay at the hospital, and then turned the full force of his charm on the fetching Private Cross.

"Well hi honey," he said to the pretty redhead. "You must be new in country – I surely wouldn't have overlooked such a diamond in the dust." He tipped her a subtle wink. "So what can I call you, Private Cross?"

Private Cross was slain. When she remembered how to speak, she replied in what she desperately hoped was a sultry tone:

"Barbara Cross, my friends call me Bambi."

"Is that so?" Face said, lifting his perfectly sculpted brows as he stowed his bag and settled in next to her. "Are we friends?"

Hannibal watched the exchange, amused. He turned and gave BA a shove towards the Huey and nodded at Murdock.

"Whenever you're ready, Captain."

xxx

Fortunately for all concerned, the liftoff was smooth, and soon Murdock was speeding through a bright blue afternoon sky. He ignored the occasional moan from the massive sergeant, and tuned out the ridiculous banter between Face and the woefully silly Private Cross. He could feel Colonel Smith's eyes measuring him, and so busied himself by babbling to Lieutenant Dixon.

The flight was relatively uneventful, but he couldn't resist taking the bird over the water, skimming so close to the surface, that he could see a pod of dolphins leaping just ahead of the Huey. Dixon, who had listened patiently to his tangential conversation, gasped at the sight of the creatures. Murdock felt his heart clench unexpectedly at the sound of her delight and her slow easy smile. She'd revealed very little about herself during their conversation. She was from Iowa and had always wanted to be a nurse. He found himself wanting to know more, but was unwilling to pry. Murdock allowed himself the momentary indulgence of studying her face, which was more pixie-like when contrasted to the drowsy beauty of Private Cross. He felt a prick of disappointment when the skids touched down at Nha Trang.

Face was the first to exit the cabin, snaking an arm around Cross's waist, ostensibly to help her take the short step to solid ground. Murdock exited the cockpit and fetched the bags. Pointedly ignoring the impromptu canoodling between Face and Cross, he handed Dixon her pack.

Dixon's ponytails fluttered like streamers in the brisk breeze that skidded across the airfield. She offered her hand to Captain Murdock, who swallowed it with his own and shook in a very gentlemanly fashion.

"Lieutenant Dixon," he said, "If one were to know you off duty – what would one call you?"

Dixon raised a single brow and crinkled her freckled nose. "One would call me Katie," she replied serenely.

"Katie," he repeated. "We'll always have Da Nang." Murdock drew a finger under her chin and then tapped her nose gently. "Here's lookin' at you, kid." He abruptly skipped away, and with an elaborate arabesque, dove into the cockpit.

Bambi, who by that time had been pried apart from Face by a somewhat impatient Hannibal, stood next to Katie as she watched the Huey lift off.

"What was that about?" the redhead asked, shouldering her bag.

"Florence Nightingale syndrome," Katie answered, her eyes following the bird as it flew west and toward a bank of gray storm clouds. "It comes with the territory."

xxx

Rain bucketed down by the time Murdock landed at the rendezvous point for Smith's Alpha Team. Face and a decidedly airsick BA grabbed their bags and climbed out of the cabin without so much as a farewell. It was their commander, the man they called Hannibal, who offered his hand to Murdock.

"You're some pilot, kid," Hannibal said, lighting a cigar. His light blue eyes sparked beneath salt and pepper brows. "I'd love to have you workin' for me."

Murdock shook his hand. He liked Smith for no reason in particular. "I'm already spoken for, colonel." The letter proving it was in the pocket of his flight jacket, waiting to be opened.

"I'll get you yet," Hannibal said confidently and jumped out of the cabin to join the eleven men waiting near a foxhole.

Murdock watched the colonel momentarily and then fished the letter from his pocket, breaking the seal with trembling fingers. He could see the CIA letterhead before he unfolded the single page. His wide brown eyes darted rapidly as he read. Despite the steamy, early summer heat, his skin prickled.

He produced a lighter and set the note ablaze.

"Operation Wonderland," he said softly, now more certain than ever that he was in over his head.

XXX

**Bleh! Thanks to those of you who made it through this clunky chapter. ^_^**


	3. R&R Redefined

**Another chapter!**

**I don't own the A-Team, blah, blah etc. **

**Regarding some military/pilot slang used in this chapter:**

**Charlie/VC: Viet Cong**

**Charlie Foxtrot: slang for clusterfuck**

**CO: Commanding Officer  
**

**Fast Movers: Fighter Jets**

**FUBAR: Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition**

**Hooch: Living quarters, or a basic hut or dwelling.  
**

**KIA: Killed in Action**

**MIA: Missing in Action**

**Naped: Napalmed  
**

**Zapped: killed**

**I probably missed some -sorry. This chapter is a bit darker, not too bad. In addition, this might be rife with spelling errors, bad grammar or overall bad writing. You've been warned!  
**

XXX

Cambodia/Vietnam Border, July 3, 1969, 09:00 hours

"I said get those fast movers in here NOW," Lieutenant Colonel 'Hannibal' Smith barked into the radio. "Stand by for metrics." He shoved the radio at Lieutenant Peck, who began the relay of coordinates.

Yellow smoke coiled from a nearby grenade, winding its way through haphazard rows of men. A few groaned and a few cried, but most were eerily silent. Among the silent were three of Hannibal's own. Three letters he'd have to write to anxious mothers.

Hannibal paused to consider the corpse nearest him, a young towheaded private. The pale sweep of his lashes and the hand settled on his chest gave him the look of a sleeping child. The snarl of his spilt intestines and the raw tatters of his legs stood as a testament to his last kiss goodnight – a claymore mine.

The whir of approaching choppers interrupted Hannibal's dismal train of thought, and instead replaced it with a fresh grim revelation.

_There won't be enough body bags._

Staccato pops from the wild tangle of jungle nearby sounded as the medevac approached. The three choppers flew in a loose V formation, but broke apart as the intermittent gunfire became a steady barrage. Hannibal silently cursed the inbound F-4 Phantoms that had yet to deliver their dangerous payload.

The birds began evasive maneuvers, the rearmost pilot proving particularly acrobatic. He swept low over the treeline and touched down, feather-light, about ten meters from Hannibal's position.

The remainder of Hannibal's Alpha Team mobilized, ferrying stretchers and body bags to the medevacs. The colonel himself approached the nearest Huey at a crouching run and nearly laughed aloud as a familiar, youthful face peered out of the cabin.

Murdock adjusted his hat and burst into an impromptu version of Led Zeppelin's "Dazed and Confused", in a warm, rich baritone.

"Captain Murdock," Hannibal greeted him with a handshake, "you're not medevac – how'd you end up on this run?"

Murdock popped a grin, snapped a salute and then shook Smith's hand.

"CO wants to see you back at Da Nang. I think he wants to have a little confab about this Charlie Foxtrot," Murdock said. "No wounded on this flight."

"I wouldn't mind having a word with Barrett either!" Hannibal snapped as Face shoved BA past him and into the cabin.

"Not this fool again!" the sergeant protested, climbing back out of the Huey.

"Aw get back in there, ya big angry mudsucker," Murdock said, slapping BA on the back and climbing into the cockpit.

"Mudsucker? Mudsucker!" BA raged "I'm gonna turn you into a fistsucker, you-"

"Get in the bird Sergeant!" Hannibal interrupted, climbing in to the cabin.

Murdock hummed cheerfully as he lifted off. It was overcast, but the gravid clouds had yet to yield rain. Instead, two F-4 Phantoms pierced the gray tapestry of the sky. Within moments the dense jungle to the west, still crackling with gunfire, bloomed red and orange.

Murdock banked sharply, leaving the napalm strike and certain death behind him.

xxx

Da Nang, July 3, 1969 15:00 hours

Colonel Barrett drained the last of the scotch from his glass. The four men stood before him at ease, though none of them looked exceptionally comfortable. Three of them, Smith and his men, were furious. The fourth, Captain HM Murdock, scrunched his hat in his long hands, seemingly unsettled by the yelling match initiated by Smith.

"The intel-" Hannibal started.

"I gave you what I had Smith!" Barrett snapped.

Hannibal heard BA shift restlessly beside him. The big sergeant displayed uncharacteristic self control.

_Even I want to jump across the desk and throttle him._

"You fed us into a meat grinder, Colonel. Three of my boys got zapped. An entire platoon of the 25th infantry is either KIA or MIA. Furthermore, the village in question was nothing but a VC weapons dump, no VIPs," Hannibal replied, straining to be civil.

Barrett waved his hand dismissively. "It's done now, Smith. I'm giving you boys four days R&R," he poured another scotch and took a seat at his desk.

Face snorted irritably.

Hannibal glared, his bright blue eyes sharp with contempt.

"Will that be all sir?"

Barrett waved his hand again, and downed his drink.

"Dismissed."

xxx

Da Nang, July 4, 1969 – 14:30 hours

"You know," Murdock said thoughtfully, replacing the black bishop with his white knight. "You're pretty bad at chess."

"Don't I know it," Katie Dixon scrunched her nose and studied the board.

"Why'd you agree to play then, pixie-face?" he took a long pull of his beer.

"Because I hate Frisbee," Katie replied, ducking as one of the plastic discs went sailing by her head.

Smoke drifted lazily in the humid air accompanied by the heavenly smell of barbeque. Groups of people laughed and chattered around an impromptu volleyball game. For the first time in a great while, voices at Da Nang were light and cheerful.

Face tipped a brief smile at Murdock as he passed, the giggling Private Cross clinging to his shirtless person. The tall pilot tipped back in his chair, his eyes roaming the gathering and settling on Hannibal Smith.

The colonel sat apart from the mingling crowd, smoking pensively. Murdock could see the gears of his mind at work, undoubtedly still chewing the gristle of yesterday's mission. After Colonel Barrett dismissed them last night, Face produced a bottle of bourbon and they'd hashed out the entire day over drinks. It was a regular no-win FUBAR op, and a complete waste of men and resources. The VC brass Hannibal's team had been sent to retrieve were long gone.

"Your move Captain," Katie said, sipping her beer.

"HM," he replied, righting his chair. He surveyed the board, adjusting his cap. He brought out his rook and looked up at her. "You're not on duty." Impulsively, he reached across the table and tugged one of her ponytails.

"Lieutenant Dixon?" a young private appeared and offered the little nurse a snappy salute.

"At ease," she said mildly.

The boy produced an envelope, placed it in her hands, saluted and was gone.

Puzzled, Katie broke the seal and examined the paper within.

Murdock watched her closely as her head dipped lower. The feathery fringe of her lashes shaded her blue eyes, but the soft patter of tears on paper was unmistakable. His hand snaked across the table towards her, carelessly scattering chess pieces. For the briefest moment her hand moved to take his, but instead she bolted, leaving the letter in her wake.

Murdock fetched the paper, a list of names. He scanned the document, stopped abruptly and read aloud–

"Staff Sergeant William Dixon, 25th Infantry, MIA July 3."

He pinched the bridge of his nose. Katie Dixon was very sparing with personal details, but she mentioned her brother Will once or twice in passing. Those brief anecdotes were rich with kid-sister adoration.

Murdock tucked the paper into his pocket and closed his eyes. There, in the dark of his mind, deadly blooms of fire took root in the jungle near Cambodia.

xxx

Da Nang, July 4, 1969, 16:00 hours

"Now, you see?" Face said, pointing at Hannibal. "He's got that look in his eye." The young lieutenant ran a hand through his short blond hair.

"Hannibal, there ain't no way that kid is still in the jungle," BA said. "We was there, they naped it to hell."

Hannibal chewed his cigar thoughtfully. They sat clustered in Murdock's hooch, passing another of Face's craftily obtained bottles of bourbon.

"Exactly," Face agreed, taking a pull from the bottle. "If he didn't evac with us, he's a crispy critter."

Murdock frowned. "He was a squad leader. Charlie'd want to interrogate him at least, if he wasn't zapped from the get-go. They could have hightailed it before the fast movers arrived."

"Shut up fool," BA growled. "That place is probably still crawling with VC. Maybe Colonel Barrett-"

"Maybe Colonel Barrett nothing," Hannibal said, exhaling a stream of smoke. "He gave us four days of R&R." He stood and capped the bottle of bourbon. "I say that stands for 'Recon and Rescue'. Let's go see if we can't find Staff Sergeant Will Dixon and bring him home with his shield, or on it."

XXX

**A big thank you to my reviewers and anonymous readers. Reviews are always appreciated!**


	4. Good Will Hunting

**Back again, and for a bit longer this time. Thank you to all my reviewers and anonymous readers. Sort of messing with a dialogue/description balance in this chapter. Who knows - it's an experiment!**

**Warning: This chapter might contain bad dialogue or bad writing or both or... you get the idea.  
**

XXX

Da Nang, July 4, 1969 19:00 hours

"Temp, you promised!"

Murdock massaged his forehead. The headache started as a hot needle behind his right eye. Painful, but tolerable. Take one tolerable headache, add Private Cross and her persistent whining and the result was a bright cluster of agony pulsing behind his skull.

_If you're listening God, a little fast-acting laryngitis wouldn't go amiss._

"Babe," Face said as the pouting redhead tugged on his sleeve, "something came up. I have to be ready to go at any time."

Murdock sighed and wiped down his sidearm with a rag. Face greased a lot of wheels to get some proper intel and supplies for their impromptu mission in a very short period of time. It seemed that nothing was beyond his reach, except perhaps a potential girlfriend who wasn't a shrill, petulant harpy.

"But babykins, I'll weawwy miss you," Cross cajoled.

Murdock holstered his .45 abruptly, thereby forestalling the temptation to use it.

Face murmured something that elicited an ear-splitting giggle. He slapped her on the backside, gave her a push towards a nearby hangar.

"Back in a bit," he tipped a wink at Murdock and followed the curvaceous private.

Rather than respond and risk further outbursts from Cross, Murdock turned his attention to a map of their target zone. It was dotted with villages so tiny they had no names, only numerical designations.

"Thought you had some R&R owed you, Captain."

He peered over the map and found Lieutenant Dixon, her face freshly scrubbed, eyes red, but otherwise composed.

"Hey there Pixie," he said, adjusting his cap. "Subject to the requirements of the service, you know." He nodded towards the Huey.

"Indeed," she said. She took a hesitant step closer. "I came to apologize for the cut-and-run this afternoon."

He shook his head. "You left the paper behind - I know."

Katie looked down at her boots. "He wanted it, you see. Infantry. Combat. He accepted what might come of that."

"Doesn't make it easy."

"No," she flicked her eyes toward the sun, which was dipping low in the cloud-flecked sky.

Murdock watched her closely, recalling the way she nearly grasped his hand across the chessboard. He reached for hers now, slowly, hesitantly. It fit in his palm like a bird in a nest.

"Don't," she said, but made no move to reclaim her hand. Her eyes remained fixed on the horizon.

"Why?"

"Don't." she repeated, looking anywhere now but at his face.

"You know," he sighed, "you're a nice girl. I bet you make a great cup of coffee, a killer apple pie and drive a pickup. You were probably in the 4-H club, sang in the church choir and wore a blue dress to your prom." He stuffed the map in his pocket and took her chin in his free hand, turning her face to his. "In other words, you seem like my kind of girl – but I'm only guessing here because you won't let me get to know you."

Katie closed her eyes briefly, momentarily banishing his handsome, angular face, his puzzled expression. When she opened them again, his brown eyes were still searching for answers.

"Why?" he repeated.

"Why?" Katie echoed. "I'll tell you why I don't want to get to know you, or anyone else here. It's because any of you, at any time, could end up in my hospital looking like a hundred plus pounds of ground beef. That's why." She gently extracted her hand from his grasp. "And for the record, Captain, I drive a Mustang."

"How are we kids?" Face asked, inconveniently reappearing with the look of a cat full of cream. His blue eyes flicked between Murdock and Katie. "You giving him a hard time lady?"

"Oh boy," the pilot muttered.

"He's about to run a dangerous op honey, would it kill you to be kind to him?" Face persisted.

"Honey?" Katie raised a single brow.

"Yeah," Face continued, "honey, doll, sweetie – whatever. Loosen up."

"Lieutenant Peck. I am a US Army nurse, not a candy striper. You may refer to me as Lieutenant or 'Dixon', if you prefer."

Murdock sucked air through his teeth. "Uh, Face-"

"No, I got this Murdock," the blond assured him, holding up a hand. "Now," he said, readdressing Katie, who folded her arms. "the least you could do is show a little gratitude."

"Gratitude." Katie repeated.

"Jesus, is there an echo? Yes, gratitude!" Face retrieved his pack from the ground near the Huey and tossed it into the cabin. "Instead of four days spent in blissful relaxation, we're going to be humping through the jungle on a suicide mission." He turned to face her again. "And it's all down his soft heart, his soft head, and your big blue eyes, sister."

"That'll do Lieutenant Peck!"

The three soldiers turned and found Hannibal, cigar clamped between his teeth, M-16 slung over his shoulder. BA followed behind, eyeing the Huey warily.

"What's going on?" Katie looked at each of the four men in turn.

"Don't worry about it, Dixon," Hannibal exhaled a stream of smoke and patted her shoulder. "Lieutenant Peck's a bit tightly wound. He was hoping to work on his suntan."

"No," Face mumbled, "Lieutenant Peck wanted a four day break from being shot at."

Katie looked up at Hannibal, studying his expression. His eyes sparked against his tanned skin. A trail of smoke curled from his cigar. His teeth flashed white and even as he gave her a reassuring smile.

"This isn't on the up-and-up," she concluded. "This is personal."

"Oh believe me honey – it's not personal, not to me. This is Hannibal's White Whale," Face said.

"Actually, Faceman, the Moby Dick analogy isn't quite correct-" Murdock started.

"Shut it fool," BA snapped and then turned to Hannibal. "We lookin for this kid or what?"

"What kid?" Katie looked at BA, who glanced at Face. Face looked at Hannibal. Hannibal looked to Murdock, who was still rambling.

"-and in a way, Colonel Smith's testing the boundaries of authority is part of the universal human experience," the pilot concluded.

Suddenly feeling all eyes on him, Murdock smiled beatifically and adjusted his cap. He caught Katie's stern expression and his smile faltered a bit.

"You seemed so upset," he said quietly.

"Captain-" Hannibal warned.

Katie looked over at the colonel, her mouth agape. "This is about my brother?"

"Dixon, look," Hannibal patted her shoulder again. "We do this kind of thing all the time. We're going in to do a little recon to see if we can't find out what happened to the rest of his platoon."

"I'm coming," she said.

"No you're not!" Face and Murdock said in unison.

Hannibal closed his eyes briefly. "Dixon, you're not combat trained."

"Nor should you be," Face added. He held up his M-16. "This rifle is almost as big as you are."

"I've been shooting since I was seven years old, Lieutenant – not that it matters," she readdressed Hannibal. "Sir, I'm coming. If there are still soldiers out there, they might need medical attention."

"We're all EMT trained," Face said.

Katie ignored him. "What can any of you do? Forbid me? Order me to stay here? What were your orders regarding this mission, Colonel?" she looked at Hannibal expectantly.

Hannibal studied the diminutive nurse. The delicate points and angles of her face were offset by a determined expression. She couldn't be more than 5'2" and 110 pounds soaking wet, but there was a wiry strength to her. He could see naked disapproval on Murdock's face, tempered by concern in his dark brown eyes as he too stared at Dixon. Face didn't seem overly concerned, and clearly expected his commander to refuse her.

"You'll stay with the chopper at all times Dixon," Hannibal said sternly. "You'll find medical supplies in there. Grab a firearm and keep it with you. You'll take your orders from Captain Murdock. You're our medic."

"Are you kidding me?" Face said as Katie pushed past him. He scowled as she accepted a .45 pistol from BA and threaded it onto her belt, then shouldered an M-16. "What do you think you're going to do with those, honey?"

"Listen 'honey', I can shoot a turkey in the head with a .22 rifle at eighty yards, and I'm looking at a really big turkey right now," Katie said, pausing to pat his cheek before climbing into the Huey and settling in the copilot's seat.

BA giggled, an incongruous sound that broke the tension and even conjured a grin from Face.

"Gentlemen, we're losing light. Let's get underway," Hannibal said, pitching his cigar and climbing aboard the chopper.

xxx

Cambodia/Vietnam Border, July 4, 1969 22:00 hours

Stars bobbed on the surface of the inky pool of night. A sliver of moon drifted above the trees as Murdock settled the chopper in a tiny clearing a few klicks from the Cambodian border. Where most of his fellows dreaded night ops, the intrepid captain loved the dark, the challenge. Inside the cabin his passengers navigated a separate dark world as each slept as best they could before time and circumstance would rob them of such luxuries. Lieutenant Dixon was the first to nod off, her face shedding at least fifteen years as she slept. The two tails of her hair and the childlike fullness of her upper lip offered a strange contrast with her tired fatigues and the dull gleam of the pistol at her belt. Though he wouldn't have allowed her to accompany them, he would take any measure to keep her from harm. He stretched out a hand to wake her and then thought better of it.

_Better you sleep on sugar, until we have need of you._

Instead, Murdock unbent his long legs and climbed out of the pilot's seat. He shook Hannibal, who seemed to need no time to throw off the cloak of sleep. He was immediately sharp and roused his reluctant companions. Murdock produced the map from his pocket and spread it out between them. He watched as Hannibal indicated a tiny dot on the map and made a few elegant sweeping gestures of his hand, something Face and BA appeared to understand. According to their latest intel, the chopper would be relatively safe for a brief period in this small clearing and the young pilot was supremely confident in his ability to defend it, if necessary. The three men opposite him had until dawn to complete their reconnaissance. After that, the risk of capture increased exponentially. BA and Face busied themselves loading up their gear with practiced ease and little noise. Hannibal leaned across the map and grinned at Murdock.

"All right Captiain," he whispered, "just as we discussed back at Da Nang. If we're not back by 05:00, get the bird out of here. Keep Dixon out of trouble."

Murdock saluted, feeling a strange half-smile tugging at his lips. He watched as the three men filed stealthily out of the chopper and melted into the surrounding jungle. The night was steamy, and in a matter of minutes his clothes were stuck to his skin. He sat with his back against metal and laid a rifle across his lap. The headache incubating in Da Nang had transcended pain and was forcing his mind down strange avenues of thought.

What could have been minutes or hours passed as Murdock sat, his ear cocked to the night. A lazy breeze stirred in the treetops harmonizing with the thrum of insects and the deep, even breathing of the drowsing Lieutenant Dixon. Eventually, he was able to orchestrate the pulse of his headache along with these sounds and the stars swooped overhead as his eyes watered with pain.

"Lightly stepped a yellow star/To its lofty place/Loosed the Moon her silver hat/From her lustral Face," he said aloud with a pronounced Texas twang.

"All of Evening softly lit/As an Astral Hall/Father, I observed to Heaven/You are punctual." Katie finished the poem sleepily. "Dickinson."

The pilot jumped, banging his head and then clambered into the cockpit.

"She speaks: O, speak again, bright angel! For thou art as glorious to this night, being o'er my head, as is a winged messenger of heaven."

"It's too early for Shakespeare – or late." Katie yawned.

"Just a bit?" he pleaded, grinning.

She yawned again. "I wonder that you will still be talking, Signor Murdock, nobody marks you."

_Ah, the lady prefers "Much Ado About Nothing", I should have guessed._

"What, my dear Lady Disdain! Are you yet living?" he replied in a dramatic whisper.

"Is it possible disdain should die-" Katie stopped. "What time is it?"

"That's not right," Murdock retorted, then shook himself and peered at his watch. "03:00 hours."

"Why didn't you wake me?" Katie demanded, righting herself.

"No need," Murdock shrugged. "I assume you went to college."

_She can't be more than twenty four years old and a second lieutenant. Too young to grease her way through the ranks._

"I did," she confirmed, peering out of the windshield into the dark.

"University of Iowa?" he guessed.

"Yale. Nursing. Psychology minor."

"Ivy League. Clever girl."

"Not so much, I just did all my homework," Katie shrugged. "I thought we were supposed to be quiet." She insisted, a bit irritated he'd somehow segued into probing for personal details.

"Chocolate or vanilla?" he asked gravely, the dim interior of the cockpit hiding the twinkle in his eyes.

"Strawberry – really now Captain," Katie folded her arms.

"One more?" he pleaded.

"You'd better make it a good one."

"Wait – you're AWOL, aren't you?" he asked, alarmed.

"Yes."

"Er… that shouldn't count as my question."

"And yet, it does," she said.

"No, I mean, when you get leave will you -" he twitched nervously. "Have you been to Hawa–"

Katie put a finger to her lips before he could finish and cocked her head, listening.

Murdock did the same, and heard nothing. Breeze, check. Insects, check. Strange clicking noise, check. He stretched an arm behind his seat and produced a helmet. He placed it on Katie's head with all the ceremony of a coronation. He leaned in close.

"Stay right here Lieutenant," he whispered and planted a quick, almost brotherly, kiss on her forehead. He crept out of the cabin with surprisingly little sound, despite his long limbs. He poked his head back in momentarily. "That's an order."

Katie frowned as he crept away from the chopper, slow and low to the ground. Her heart hammered against her ribs as he melded with the dark.

Time slowed to a crawl as the heat and clamor of the jungle closed in around her. She stuffed down the urge to flee the bird and waited, counting every bead of sweat coursing down her back. He'd been gone impossibly long, twenty minutes. Then thirty. Then forty.

The snap of gunfire came with the creeping dawn. Katie clapped a hand over her mouth to keep from crying out. She crawled back into the cabin, donned her medical kit and threaded ammo pouches onto her belt. Her M-16 rifle leading the way, Second Lieutenant Kathleen Dixon disobeyed a direct order, hoping in her heart that the tall, manic Captain would be alive to scold her for it.

XXX

**Thanks for sticking with me this far!**


	5. The Joys of the Jungle

**Hi! Sorry about the ridiculously long delay. I've been working, working, working and suffering, suffering, suffering with allergies. It became phenomenally difficult to focus my watering eyes on a computer screen both at work and at home. **

**Annnnnyway - the usual warning about mediocre writing still stands for this chapter. I picked a random hometown in the Texas Panhandle for Murdock. I couldn't find any canon reference, but didn't really do an exhaustive search. If anyone happens to know this information - please share. **

XXX

Cambodia/Vietnam Border, July 5, 1969, 04:30 hours.

Hannibal stuffed down the urge to smoke, though it'd always helped him think.

The eastern sky blushed faintly with the dawn, though it was barely visible through the dense leafy canopy of the Cambodian jungle. He could just hear the quiet, rhythmic breathing of Sergeant BA Baracus under the persistent thrum of insects. They were voracious, those minute jungle warriors. They drew blood. They raised welts. They made this sweltering latrine of a country worse than unbearable. BA, crouched on his right, peered through field glasses and offered no complaint. He knew better.

On his left, First Lieutenant Templeton Peck, called Face by some, scanned the village. He was counting silently. Hannibal's team been reconnoitering for three and a half hours, and according to Lieutenant Peck's sharp eye, there were at least 15 VC, 20 civilians and one United States Army soldier holed up here. The young private had been herded into a hut on the far side of the village, near the pigpen. The miserly moonlight had provided no real aid, though BA was fairly certain that the captured grunt was not Sgt. Will Dixon. It didn't matter. No one would be left to the Viet Cong.

The team agreed to move in at dawn and do what they did best. Surprise, strike, kill.

Hannibal heard a soft squish, and a faint curse from Lieutenant Peck. Leeches. Another joy of the jungle. He derived great pleasure from scorching them with the lit tip of a cigar until they detached and tumbled away with a faint hiss. Hannibal turned to signal BA to move in closer, to confer one last time, and found himself face-to-face with Lieutenant Dixon.

Even in the faint, early light he could see her eyes were huge and wary under her pot helmet. She carried her M-16 with the bayonet attached. He hadn't heard her coming.

"Dixon," Hannibal whispered. "You were supposed to stay with -" he stopped and looked around. Captain Murdock didn't appear to be with her.

"Are you kidding me?" Face whispered harshly. "I told you, Hannibal… didn't I tell you?"

BA turned and tipped backwards, surprised to find Dixon beside him. Face continued whispering incoherent curses. Hannibal held up his hand for silence.

"Dixon, how the hell did you get the drop on us?" he demanded, both curious and embarrassed. That would be a priceless bit of comedy for Stars and Stripes: 'Nurse Ambushes Three Special Forces Officers.'

Despite her earlier stealth, Dixon was shaking. "I-I pretended I was hunting whitetails sir," she said, swallowing. "Sir-"

"Listen honey-" Face interjected "-you were told to stay with the bird."

BA grumbled softly. "Shut up Face. Somethin's not right. She here for a reason, not 'cause she out pickin' flowers." He stopped and looked at Dixon expectantly.

"It's Captain Murdock," Dixon whispered, her voice quavering.

"I knew it! That crazy fool," BA made a fist.

Hannibal held up his hand again.

"What about him Dixon?" he asked.

The words tumbled and broke over her fear, her anxiety. Something about a noise, Murdock leaving, a gunshot. Hannibal closed his eyes briefly.

"When was that?" he looked at his watch.

"Around 03:40 sir."

"About 50 minutes ago," Hannibal looked wistfully at the cigar in his shirt pocket. Captain Murdock was either dead, wounded, or missing. He had at least one grunt to rescue, an unknown number of potential hostages cached in one or more huts, his team consisted of two disgruntled Army killers and a diminutive nurse, and dawn was fast approaching.

"I don't know 'bout this Hannibal," BA grumbled.

Hannibal grinned at the apprehensive soldiers. "Gentlemen -" he winked at Dixon. "This'll be a picnic." He spread a crude little drawing of the village on the ground between them. Until Dixon appeared, He'd had a few snatches of a plan. Nothing concrete, nothing executable. Here in the incipient dawn, he realized that Face and BA hadn't picked up on his uncertainty - despite the weight of their own. They seemed to believe that he had over a dozen schemes in the works before the Huey touched down in the jungle. The sudden knowledge speared him with anxiety. He extracted the cigar from his pocket and twirled it, but didn't light up. Their faith was heartening, and he couldn't discourage them by tipping his hand. This place, this stinking jungle, terrified him. Furthermore, the thought of laying siege to the village, even with two such competent men at his side, twisted his guts.

They leaned in close, even little Dixon, eager to get their assignments. Hannibal pointed to a dot on the map, then at BA, who nodded and melted into the brush. Face, after studying his position on the map, headed in the opposite direction , tossing Lieutenant Dixon a parting glare as he went.

Dixon.

She looked up at Hannibal, eyes wide. Sweat poured from under her pot helmet. The rifle trembled in her hands. She'd made it through basic. She claimed to be a decent shot with a .22.

Right now, Hannibal thought, I need to dig deep and find something in me that believed this tiny woman, a woman who came to Vietnam to heal and not to kill, could do her part.

Hannibal took a deep breath. "So. You're a hunter?"

"I've hunted sir," she said, sounding less than convincing.

Great.

"Turkeys and whitetail. You bag anything?"

"I do all right sir. Will's better."

She sounded more certain this time, so he pressed on.

"You know Dixon, throughout history some of the best warriors were conscripted into service at a time of great need," Hannibal smiled faintly as the M-16 steadied in her hands. "At home, they were simple hunters. Those skills - patience, precision and determination, are the quintessence of an Army sharpshooter."

She nodded, but offered no comment. The colonel beckoned her to follow, and she did. If he couldn't hear the whisper of her breathing, he'd have never known she was behind him. He had men on his A-team who made a greater racket.

He paused at the base of a large tree, part of a dense clump at the edge of the clustered huts, at the farthest point from the pigpen and the prison hut. Hannibal pointed up to the tree.

"Lieutenant. I need you to take your rifle and climb this tree. Quiet as a mouse, quick as a snake. You're our eyes in the sky." He watched as she tilted her head up, assessing the branches. "This isn't hunting whitetail." He detached the scope from his own rifle, and fitted it to hers.

"No sir," she said gravely. He saw that she knew.

"We're outnumbered Dixon. You cannot waver. There are US soldiers in that camp, and they're not going to spend another day in VC custody," Hannibal paused and rubbed his forehead. "You're my ace in the hole. When we make our move - shoot to kill."

Her face was pinched with fear, and Hannibal watched as she shouldered her rifle, snapped a salute and crept up the tree with the ease and stealth of a spider. Within moments, she disappeared into the canopy.

He refocused his attention on the village and there, in the dim light, a small VC patrol returned, dragging what looked like a jumble of firewood. They dumped their burden unceremoniously just inside the door of the prison hut. Hannibal could just make out two long, splayed legs and the cuff of an A-2 flight jacket.

Captain Murdock.

xxx

In the dark of the Texas panhandle, lights blinked and chased furiously around the sign for the Wonder Drive-In. It was the only attraction in Spearman, Texas - and on a Friday night, it was the cultural hub for anyone under twenty-five.

Murdock stepped out of the cab of his Ford F-100 pickup, marveling at the forgotten pleasure of civilian shoes. In this case, a dusty pair of snip-toe cognac colored boots. Boots he thought he'd lost before heading to basic - but they were here now, peering out from beneath the frayed cuffs of his second-skin blue jeans.

He'd awoken from a maddening dream this evening. A dream about a distant jungle. He could only recall snips and flashes - a helicopter hunkered in a small clearing, a sleeping girl in the cockpit, the flash of a pistol in his hand, the feel of fists and feet pummeling him like stones, the warm tang of blood in his mouth just before the dark veiled his eyes. He woke up on the tired brown couch in his grandmother's living room. All was right with the world.

The girls lined up at the concession counter, and true to their Texas roots - most of them sported mind-bendingly voluminous hair. Skirts came in various lengths, though none of them were immodest, considering the rampant conservatism of Hansford county. Most wore traditional western shirts in various colors, and they seemed to his beauty-starved eyes like candy. Sweet, but insubstantial.

Murdock made his way to the counter, then ordered a Coke and their famous cheese fries with jalapenos. He wasn't sure when his tour ended, or how he'd ended up on his grandmother's couch, but now he didn't care. In a chopper, in the moment, all of his life fell away and he became someone else entirely. Sitting here at the drive-in on a Friday night, with the aimless chatter of women pattering around him like rain, made his chest tighten with forgotten longing for the comfort of home. A basket of fries, drowning in cheese and dusted with chopped jalapenos appeared before him. He dug in, fairly gobbling his food, but he didn't care.

A small, slender hand plucked a fry from the basket. Murdock looked up abruptly, momentarily annoyed. She was petite and dressed rather like he was. Boots, check. Tight jeans, check. Blue gingham blouse, che- no. His gray t-shirt read "ARMY". Close enough. The girl gave him a mysterious smile. The twin tails of her light brown hair pooled on the crisp shoulders of her blouse. She looked like Dorothy Gale, only… better. After what he hoped was an inconspicuous glance at the curve of her denim-clad thighs, Murdock pushed the basket of fries between the two of them and smiled. She sipped her Coke and grinned around the straw, her freckled nose crinkling. Then it hit him.

"Katie?"

"That's right Captain," Katie said, leaning against the counter.

"What're you doing in Spearman? Shouldn't you be in Iowa? In Parkersburg? When did your tour end?" The questions tumbled forth and he grabbed her shoulders in his excitement. Her blue eyes widened.

"I'm not in Spearman, Captain," she said.

Murdock ignored the incongruity of her statement. "HM. Call me HM. Please?" He hadn't released her shoulders and now gave them a tentative squeeze. "We're not in the Nam anymore. Call me HM." It sounded like begging, but he didn't care. Here in the incandescent glow of a drive-in concession stand, everything fell into place. She was steady, smart, and filled with such inherent goodness. The way she filled out her jeans, he told himself, was only a secondary consideration. Though he couldn't piece together how he got here, or what was happening - here was Katie Dixon. He pulled her close and leaned down, his long, roman nose brushing hers, small and sharp. Her breath was sweet with Coke and he could feel the heat of her mouth as she spoke, their lips nearly touching.

"It's not your time Captain," she said. Murdock could feel her little heart hammering away against him.

He shook his head as the whole scene dissolved into mist.

"You never left the jungle, Captain Murdock." Katie said, as she faded in his arms. "Now it's time for you to go back."

xxx

The smell was so strong that he could taste it far in the back of his throat. The overwhelming stench of spoiling meat. The suffocating heat pressed in around him, brutally severing whatever threads of the dream he still clung to. His entire body throbbed, and breathing was an exercise in pain. Murdock focused on a dim blur of light. He could see two VC standing by the crude door and sharing a cigarette.

A faint moan drifted from a far corner.

Wherever he was, he wasn't alone.

XXX

**Alas, poor Murdock - you're hell and gone from Spearman, Texas. Thank you for reading, and sticking with the story so far. ^_^**


	6. That's Why They Bite

**Haha... hi! It's been ages since I've given this fic (or anything else other than work) attention. I can only beg pardon for the lackluster writing, I'm trying to get back on the horse after a very long respite indeed. I know, I know - it's not very long and is pretty much devoid of dialogue. Again, all apologies. ^_^ **

XXX

Cambodia/Vietnam Border, July 5, 1969, 0630 Hours.

A twisting, grey filament crawled from the tip of the cigarette. The orange light pulsed and faded, pulsed and faded in a calm and even rhythm.

Had it been minutes or hours since the supple leather of his jacket settled in a tired pool at his feet? Since the sweat-damp t-shirt was rent from him? Since the mosquitoes tattooed his newly-exposed flesh with little bloody badges? They had wanted him to anticipate what was to come, wanted the fear to build.

Instead, he'd watched the creeping blush of morning beyond the crude door of the hut. He'd willed the oppressive abattoir stink and the faint gasps of his fellow captive to recede. He'd thought, instead, of his grandmother.

He was seven. Reedy, tanned, grinning, and back from an afternoon at the creek behind the farm, he held out a bucket of shiners. A dip net balanced on his left shoulder. To his adult mind, both arms seemed no bigger than matchsticks, and were peppered with mosquito welts. His grandmother had smiled her crooked smile and stubbed out her cigarette, never-minding the drip, drip, drip from the net. Her hair was still mostly ash-brown and tied up with a faded blue bandanna. She'd taken the bucket and settled it in the deep kitchen sink, then fetched a box of baking soda from a shelf above the stove. A few drops of water in a teacup, a few shakes of powder and she'd produced a thick white paste. Her long, tapered fingers, cool and stained with nicotine, dabbed the paste on his bites.

"You're just as sweet as can be, HM," she'd said. "That's why they bite ya."

He'd been able to hold on to that feeling, her cool fingers, the warm rasp of her voice - even as the compact soldier with the cigarette wound a rope around his biceps. Even as the tension increased, forcing his arms behind his back, he thought of those shiners frying in her big black skillet. Even as the knots were secured, his shoulders burning from the strain, he thought of how, over those little fried fishes and slices of cool melon, he'd first confessed his dream of flight.

When the first blows landed, lighting little fires along his ribcage, warming the taut muscles of his abdomen - he'd been sitting at the kitchen table in Spearman, Texas. But the pain caught up with him, and the tide rolled in, bringing him back to himself. To the Nam. To this no-name village. To this hut. To the shouting. To the demands for information.

Time expanded.

Contracted.

In.

Out.

Pulsed.

Faded.

His world reduced to the glowing tip of the guerrilla's cigarette. Minutes? Hours? Captain HM Murdock had lost all sense of the present.

When the first punch landed below the belt, time became suddenly, sharply irrelevant.

xxx

Lieutenant Colonel John "Hannibal" Smith was decidedly irritated. It wasn't that things were going contrary to plan - it was all coming together very nicely. Well, as nicely as one could expect considering that they mightn't live until lunchtime. It was the unpleasant discovery of an impromptu and poorly-dug latrine at the east end of the village. It was an obstacle that, considering the configuration of the huts, robbed him of much needed cover.

A few Charlie patrolled the center of the village in lazy, lopsided circles, their grumbling acknowledgment of each other punctuated by yawns. That, at least, was in his favor.

While he couldn't see his teammates, Hannibal could almost sense them moving into position, waiting for his signal. He could almost feel the silent shift of Sergeant Baracas as he settled his formidable bulk into the dense tangle of brush. Lieutenant Peck, stationed in a cluster of trees to the west, would be scanning the site with his sharp blue eyes, his strong jaw tensing and relaxing, tensing and relaxing the way it always did before go-time.

Hannibal fingered the cigar in his top pocket and checked his watch. 06:59. One minute.

As the closest guard passed and then pressed on, turning his back to Hannibal's position, the colonel stepped from behind a tree. He leaped, stag-like, over the latrine pit and paused. His heart thudded. He'd made very little noise, and Charlie up ahead continued his sleepy amble toward the west end of the village. Peck would find him.

Hannibal stooped into a crouching run, the weak morning light sliding over his lean form and only briefly catching on the silvery strands of hair that shot through the rest of his dark crop like lightning. He paused next to his target, a rickety hay cart. Long, square-tipped fingers fished into a pants pocket and produced a packet of waterproof matches. He squinted at the northernmost hut, the makeshift prison. Head cocked, Hannibal caught the faintest noise beneath the chatter of morning in the jungle. It was the unmistakable thud of fists on flesh. His mouth pressed into a grim line. He popped the matches alight and waited patiently as the initial flare settled to a slow burn. With an almost casual flick of his wrist, he pitched the small flame into the cart, willing the hay to be consumed.

xxx

In her perch at the south end of the village, Second Lieutenant Katie Dixon stretched along a sturdy limb like a leopard. To the casual observer she might appear to be drowsing, so languid was her pose. The eye pressed to the rifle scope, however, was sharp and watchful - flicking, scanning, squinting in an endless pattern. The small brown men in rag-tag uniforms morphed from men to deer and back again.

Men.

Deer.

Men.

The signal would be obvious, Colonel Smith had assured her. After that, it was up to her to cover the three soldiers as they stormed the little blip of the village and searched for POWs. Searched for her brother Will. Searched for Captain Murdock.

Captain Murdock.

Before he melted into the predawn jungle, he'd placed a helmet on her head. Beneath that helmet now, her ponytails dripped sweat, her scalp crawled with fear, anticipation and likely a few inquisitive ants. He was an odd man, she thought. He was graceful and rangy, quick and kind, manic and very, very clever. She recalled the brush of his lips against her sweaty forehead in the Huey - a kiss she now regarded as a talisman, a ward against harm so long as he lived.

She hoped he lived.

She gathered her focus and aimed it, laser-like, down the scope. She made out the figure of Colonel Smith, the growing flames inside the hay cart. Her finger twitched on the trigger of the M-16. Forcing her breath into a slow and even rhythm, she watched as Colonel Smith broke into a run, shoving the hay cart ahead of him towards a single hut at the center of the village. According to Lieutenant Peck's best guess, the VC were using it to cache weapons and fuel. As she fixed her eye on Colonel Smith, he wedged the burning cart into the doorway of the storage hut, then tucked and rolled for cover behind the rusty hull of a jeep.

An orange burst of flame bloomed at the heart of the village, followed by a satisfying roar as the fuel inside the hut ignited. A staccato series of pops punctuated the explosion as the ammunition caught fire. Alarmed and brandishing weapons, the guerrillas swarmed from all corners of the village towards the great tower of flame.

An obvious signal indeed.

Men.

Deer.

Men.

Deer.

Lieutenant Dixon kept her eye to the scope and waited for the hunt to begin.

XXX

**P.S. It's also weird. Thank you for reading. ^_^**


	7. They Were The Enemy

**AN: Hi.^_^ Terrible at updating, I know. It's a bit of a heavy (thematically, anyway) chapter. I've gotten a few PMs about the swearing in previous chapters. I know they didn't swear on the TV show, I promise. I have to tell you, from a purely historical standpoint, the f-bomb was used extensively and with great relish by soldiers serving in Vietnam - even though they mightn't have used it in polite conversation at home. Otherwise, I apologize for wrecking canon. I know Face isn't a hothead in the series, but he's a young 20-something here. I stand by my disclaimer that I'm not writing an episode of the show and I just want to have a bit of fun playing with the characters. This is my first fanfic, and I do want to get better - so I welcome all constructive criticism. **

**Warning: Violence, death.**

**(I know, the Author's Note is nearly as long as the fic! Sorry. ^_^)**

Cambodia/Vietnam Border, July 5, 1969, 07:00 hours.

XXX

_Hail Mary, full of grace…_

Saturdays were special at the Sacred Heart orphanage. Neatly book-ended by a week of dry lessons, and a day of worship and solemnity - Saturdays afforded endless possibilities, even to an orphan of limited means, but limitless imagination. Summer Saturdays were no less special for not having school preceding them. They were lazy and full of leisure and laughter. If Lieutenant Templeton Peck closed his eyes, he could see the nuns grilling dogs and burgers in the orphanage courtyard. He could hear the crack of the bat as eager young boys popped fly ball after fly ball. He could smell the chlorine drying in his hair after a trip to the public pool, where the girls skittered and giggled in sherbet-bright bikinis.

_Blessed is the fruit of thy womb…_

He'd never enlisted with the intention to kill. Throughout his senior year, his friends batted ideas back and forth. College? Career? Army? For a skinny 18-year-old orphan, accepting his diploma didn't open many doors. He couldn't very well continue working at the movie theater, where the only real perk was seeing all the new films for free. College was expensive and out of the question. He briefly toyed with putting on the cheap suit he got as a graduation gift from the brothers and sisters at Sacred Heart, and applying at insurance companies, banks and car dealerships. No. For a man like Templeton Peck, whose sharp mind stretched far beyond the hand life had dealt him, only enlistment promised a chance to see the world and a piece of the action he'd so far only glimpsed in the flickering hush of the theater. The possibility that he would one day take a life, take many lives, seemed so remote - even as he daily acquired the knowledge in Basic that would transform him into a fleshly weapon. A killer.

_Now and at the hour of our death…_

He couldn't be more than nineteen. A hand-rolled cigarette jutted from the spare crease of his mouth. Exhaustion pulled at his features and was quickly replaced by surprise as the great woof of an explosion erupted behind him. The sentry half-turned and drew his pistol, looking uncertain and then alarmed as Lieutenant Peck emerged from the brush, his own sidearm drawn. The sentry opened his mouth, perhaps to shout, but no sound emerged. A brief snap reported from the blond Lieutenant's gun. A drizzle of blood wound its way between the young guerilla's eyes.

It helped when you thought of them as sinners.

xxx

Sergeant BA Baracus rushed from cover, catching a faint blast of heat as the central hut became a roaring fountain of flame. VC scuttled in all directions, shouting incoherently. BA had done his best to pick up a few Vietnamese words and phrases, as they all had done when they first got in country. The words slipped around the edges of his brain and just wouldn't stick, leaving him with a complete inability to communicate with the natives in any way beyond crude pantomime. He didn't need a translator to figure out what they were saying now, and it really didn't matter. These men had killed three of his own, and possibly wiped out an entire platoon of the 25th infantry. They were the enemy, and they bowed before his rifle. Ribbons of blood fluttered as the men fell.

Only the dull click of a jammed carbine stayed his hand. Whirling, BA found himself face to face with a little string of a man. Charlie's nose twitched as he pitched the useless carbine and drew his sidearm. BA's heart crashed and thundered in his chest, his arms impossibly heavy as the pistol barrel was leveled at his forehead. He could hear another M-16 firing distantly as he raised his own, a few seconds too late. The guerrilla's arm jerked sharply and a great gout of warmth splattered against BA's face. Charlie fell as though his legs had been cut at the knee, the crown of his head blown away by a well-placed bullet. BA looked around, wild-eyed, unable to find the source of his salvation.

A muttered prayer later he had his M-16 at the ready and was storming through the outlying huts, looking for stragglers and soldiers with friendlier faces.

xxx

_Thuk!_

_Thuk!_

_Thuk!_

The shadows folded and unfolded, framed by the crude door and backlit by the glow of morning.

_Thuk!_

A rich baritone drifted in and out, punctuated by the strange thwacking sound.

"Today," it sang, "I feel like pleasing you more than before…"

_Thuk!_

With each thwack, the voice became uncertain, but persisted. As each minute passed, the shadows sharpened. Became distinct. Became men.

One knelt, arms bound behind him, broad shoulders straining. The pale light skimmed the planes and angles of his tanned skin, his shirt a filthy tangle on the floor in front of him.

One stood, compact body bending and twisting as he delivered sharp blows to the man kneeling. Sharp, swift punches that landed with snaps as flesh connected with flesh. With -

_Thuk!_

The kneeling figure giggled slightly as his tormentor's fist connected with his chest, and continued singing absently. This fresh round of defiance provoked a torrent of abuse that was only faintly recognizable as Vietnamese. The captor put his feet into his work, words alternating with swift kicks. The captive bent forward, sweaty strings of hair brushing bridge of his long nose.

The kicking stopped with a gurgle. The soldier twisted furiously on the dirt floor, silenced by the sharp intrusion of a M-7 bayonet just below his chin.

A new sound came then, a voice of quiet authority.

"Hang in there Captain Murdock." A tall taut-waisted man retrieved the bayonet from the guerrilla's throat and sliced the ropes binding the kneeling man's arms.

The face was a blur. Bright blue eyes registered, as did the look of grave concern. A brief tug followed as the newcomer leaned down, squinting.

"Sergeant Will Dixon," the man grinned, his white even teeth clamped an unlit cigar. "Gotcha!"

XXX

"**Today" lyrics © Jefferson Airplane. **

**Thanks for reading! Apologies for all the violence, but it is a war fic, y'know. ^_^ The next chapter will likely be a bit less grim, I promise. **


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